Who are you, to survive?
by Daydreaming-with-ink
Summary: In the aftermath of their colleague's death, Cuddy and House strive to find a modicum of strength within themselves to go on. Oneshot, Huddy, pretty angsty. M to be safe.


**Who are you, to survive? **

Honestly, she didn't ever expect him to admit he was dying by degrees.

Kutner's death had picked everyone apart and forced them together in the same week. Nobody would be whole for a long time but House…he was unravelling, slowly but surely. She kept telling him it was okay to be upset, that he could be human for once and people would understand. Yet she knew inside that he would never break down in plain sight, because he couldn't bear to see the look of pity on their faces. For House, that was a pain worse than death. Contemplating this as she tucked Rachel in for the night – her hand lingering on the baby's cheek for a moment – she was startled a little by the sudden knocking on her door.

She was even more shocked when she opened it to find House standing in front of her.

A small slice of eternity rolled by as he stood there staring at her, the seconds bleeding on into the next. She shook her head to clear it of thoughts that he looked so broken, and spoke first.

"You weren't at the funeral."

He couldn't quite gather the strength to give her eye contact. "I went to his apartment," he muttered, his voice rasping and small. "I couldn't help it. I found photos…" he handed one to her: Kutner shrouded in shadow. She found herself deeply moved by the tragic look on his face, but had to force it down for House's sake: she couldn't let him think this meant anything.

"House," she began, his name a sigh, "Sometimes people just look sad in pictures. This photo won't give you the answer; it doesn't reveal some great mystery. It's just a photo of Kutner sitting in a tree's shadow. People won't want to remember him looking like this. They want to remember him being happy."

He snatched the photograph back and pushed it into his jacket pocket for safekeeping.

"Then they don't care about him at all. It's just lies. We should be able to remember someone for all they were, not cherry pick the best bits to make ourselves feel better."

"And what have you done to make yourself better? Dig up his apartment and blame his parents?"

"I came here."

All the good men in the entire world could not have drawn such a sigh from her as he did then. She had to cross her arms to feel at least a little bit like she was trying to protect herself. He had used her so many times before…why should this night be any different? _Look at him. _He was devastatingly beautiful; he made her feel like she had the night she'd had to say goodbye to Joy: like the world was ending, but it hurt less because she'd witnessed real beauty for just a moment. Tonight though, he brought about feelings that were more aches than anything else. He was a hurt that needed fixing, a lost man that needed guidance for the first time since he'd worked for her.

"Cuddy."

He'd been saying her name for the last few seconds, but she hadn't been listening.

"Come in, then," she spoke, coughing to clear her voice as she opened the door wider for him.

"Got anything to drink?" he asked, moving toward the living room. She followed him anxiously, smoothing down her skirt. It was not very late, and she had yet to change after the funeral.

"Not since Rachel arrived, sorry."

He had to snark at her then; he felt it rising like bile he couldn't hold back. "But with no booze how will we take advantage of each other?"

_We'll just have to use our imaginations. _

The retort was there, lurking on the back of her tongue, but she couldn't do it. Not tonight.

She apologised instead.

"You haven't changed yet," he pointed out, downing two Vicodin.

"I was about to, before you…" she sighed. She had to ask. "House. What are you doing here?"

He took a seat on the couch, pressing his forehead into the handle of his cane, and she took comfort from this small act of normalcy on his part.

"Booty call," he answered. The heavy tone contrasted the lightness of the statement. To her surprise, he took another two Vicodin and bounced the container back and forth in his hands.

"Stop that!" she grabbed the pills from his hand, "Do you have a _death_ wish?"

His cane slid from his hand and his face rose to gape at her. She stopped breathing, as if she'd been struck. Her face burned hot with shame.

"Wrong words," she muttered, sliding onto the seat next to him. "Those were…the _wrong_ words."

She pressed her shaking hands into her lap and rested her eyes on the opposite wall, ignoring his penetrating gaze.

"He could have left a note," House said bitterly, "Just a simple explanation, and I could have slept tonight."

She couldn't ignore him any longer; she twisted to face him. "So now you're blaming Kutner? You've run out of people to yell at already?"

"At least I'm trying to figure it out," he snapped, "The rest of you have done _nothing_ to find an answer –"

"People are _grieving_, House!"

Her hands were shaking with rage now. She couldn't look at him. She got up and pressed her face into her hands. He followed her movements with his stare. "They don't want to find out how miserable he was; they want to think that he's happier now!"

"Then they're just pathet –"

He bit off the end of his own sentence, eyes averting to the floor.

The room had gone deathly quiet but for the distant sound of a baby crying. Had their voices really gotten so loud?

"You've woken Rachel," she said quietly, her voice reedy and thin, and left to tend to her.

House picked up his cane and thudded the end of it roughly into the floor. Even _he_ couldn't finish his own sentence. His head was starting to feel heavy, and he felt the fingers of sleep pulling at him. He shouldn't have downed those extra Vicodin. There were a lot of things he shouldn't have done. He looked to the door, realising that leaving this mess to settle for the night would be the smartest idea.

He got about as far as the end of the couch before he fell back onto it, weighed down by sleep and the burden of his misery.

***

She should have protected herself better.

Within ten minutes of his arrival House had worked his way under her skin and pulled at the emotions there. As she'd thought before, he knew just how to make her bleed. Yet despite this and the things he'd said, she still couldn't bring herself to wake him and send him away, or stop herself from thinking of him while she showered. The water was hot enough to flush her skin red as she stepped under the spray, shutting her eyes against the downpour. She'd thrown a blanket over him but his right arm was exposed and hanging, his fingers scraping the floor. The position of it left his biceps in full view, the muscles and veins of his arm like some masterpiece in her eyes. She massaged the water through her scalp, imagining those arms throwing the shower door open and wrapping around her –

She gasped as the bathroom door clicked open and cold air rushed in. "Oh. This is where you'd gotten to."

She squinted, trying to see through the foggy shower curtain, as House stood in the doorway.

"House, get out!"

"I need to pee."

"I don't care; I'm showering!"

He seemed a bit unsteady reaching for the light switch. There was a click, and the room was dark. It was silent save for the shower's downpour of water.

"Now I can't see you. Problem solved."

Despite his reassurance she drew her arms over her chest and faced the wall, her forehead dipping to rest against the steamy tiled wall. "Hurry up, the cold air is coming in," she told him. She heard no reply, but the toilet flushed and suddenly she was drenched in freezing water. She shrieked and jumped to the edge of the shower, backed against the curtain.

"House!" she growled. It figured he'd ruin her fantasies within seconds.

She could practically _hear_ his amusement as he shut the door behind him.

***

"Are you going to hide in there all night or are you going to shut your kid up?" House called through the bedroom door.

"I'm coming, I'm just –"

"Don't care! Just hurry up! Kid's giving me a headache."

Cuddy sighed, tucking back a strand of hair that had fallen from its towel. She could hear Rachel crying but it was nothing very serious; probably restlessness. She no longer had the strength to deal with House and had taken her time washing her hair and getting dressed. She pictured her daughter writhing uncomfortably, the soft curve of her brow furrowed in annoyance as she waited for her mother to stop being childish. She should be taking care of her, someone who was still alive. She should be looking out for everyone who needed help in the wake of the tragedy, and yet she was hiding in her bedroom like a coward.

House was not waiting for her when she opened the door, nor was he in the kitchen or lounge. She left him to his devices and headed for Rachel's room. He was there, standing over the cradle and watching her wriggle. Cuddy could see the effect children had on him, even if he didn't want to admit it. Not all the time, but every now and then a child would seep under his skin with their innocence. She watched him until she couldn't bear the sound of Rachel crying for another second, a little unwilling to break the shadow of humanity her daughter had cast on him.

"When a baby wants help it cries," he murmured; his voice had a rare softness to it.

"And you definitely hear it, sorry about the noise," she replied, moving like clockwork to lift Rachel into her arms and hush her. He shook his head, indicating this wasn't what he'd meant, leaning against the cradle's railing to watch her.

"It's an instinct. You're in trouble, you call out. You don't hide, you don't lie and you don't keep quiet about it. Kids have no concept of these things. They're the stage of human that's the most honest. Why does that quality fade with age? Why are we doomed by the time we make it to double digits?" He slammed his cane hard into the carpet. "You ask for _help_," he repeated bitterly.

Cuddy listened, his words like a confession – hard to take now matter how desperately you needed their truth. Rachel was asleep again. She settled her back into bed and soon found herself following House into the hall. She thought he was just being pensive at first, until he raised his eyebrows at her and she realised he was waiting for an answer.

"We'll never…" she trailed off as he turned to face her, his breath hot on her cheek and heavy with context. His hands crept up to grip her forearms and held onto the lapel of his jacket.

"Who are we to survive?" he whispered, his face gaunt as if the question caused a physical pain. "Kutner was fine. He was nice; he was a good doctor; he was interesting." He gripped her tighter, pulled her body closer to him. "But you and me, with our miserable stretch of history…Thirteen, who's dying anyway; Taub, who cheated on his wife…why have we pulled through our crap while _Kutner _was the one who pulled the trigger?"

Her mouth was open, a silent gasp at the pain his words were causing. Her eyes fell closed so she wouldn't have to see the fear in his eyes.

"I don't know, House," she whispered.

"He was an idiot."

"He was looking for peace."

"There's no such thing. We have to make do with what we've got." The break in his voice caused her to open her eyes, and the second she did he descended on her. _This is not a kiss, _she thought, _this is making do. _The slow moving of their lips erased the memory of their rough kiss those many months ago. He felt her squirming towards the left, where the bedroom door stood ajar. Without breaking their union he bade she move into the room and his feet filled the place of every step she took as they headed for the bed. When they were undressed they started moving together like a tide of grief, ebbing and flowing and tugging at each other's hair and tilting the other's chin just _so_, to better fit their mouths together. They felt the velvet smouldering of release together, like a flame that was not yet ready to burn, not like this.

_This is nothing, _House thought, unsure who was cradling who when it was over. _This is making do, like Kutner should have done. _

But when he closed his eyes and the pain of life, of his leg, followed him into his dreams, he saw the same way out Kutner had.

He saw the trigger of a gun.


End file.
